


Flag of Surrender

by aurora_ff



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_ff/pseuds/aurora_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint rescues Natasha from herself. Again. </p><p>Possible Captain America: The Winter Soldier & Avengers spoilers.</p><p>Excerpt:<br/><i>When Clint brought a breathing woman back to headquarters instead of an enemy agent in a body-bag, he thought Director Fury would blow a gasket for the blatant defiance of orders. Yet he convinced Fury to forgo S.H.I.E.L.D.’s usual assessment protocols to bring her into the fold, skipping weeks of psychiatric evaluation, the results of which he knew would have dismissed her genius in the name of risk-management.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flag of Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Extracted from my other related Marvel Universe fanfic, as a stand-alone narrative between Natasha Romanov (Black Widow) and Clint Barton (Hawkeye). After the events of _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_. For "Mature Audiences" willing to dive into some ugly, I recommend reading my ongoing Black Widow origin story, Tightwire.

Clint returned to the flat with a couple of bags of groceries and a couple of new opportunities for identities he wanted to run by Natasha. He moved quietly in case she was already asleep, but as he set the keys down on the table, he saw her note. “Up top. 2100.”

He checked his watch, which flashed “01:33”, and cursed.

Still the voice in the back of his head warned him to keep his cool and check the hallway junctions and fire doors before proceeding up the stairwell. Plenty of agents had been tricked over the years into panicking about a colleague, and they headed right into a trap. Natasha would never fall for it; neither could he.

His heart skipped a beat when he found her hunched and motionless on the roof. “Natasha!” he called, sinking down to examine her. Her eyes were open, staring down at white silk rags bunched and wound in her fists. He held his cheek to her lips, feeling her slow and steady breath as he also checked her pulse. Her vitals were fine, but her skin felt cold. She had stayed up here in the wind too long, exposed.

Clint had found her like this before, completely shut down and unresponsive. He knew what caused it, and he knew what to do.

He gently unwound the remains of the nightgown from her hands and stuffed it in his jacket pocket; he would deal with that thing later. Then he wrapped her limp arm around his shoulder and scooped her up. “Maybe we’ll take the elevator. What do you say, Nat?” he offered, warmly, as if nothing was wrong.

Back down at the apartment Clint sat her down on the bed, then started the shower, letting it come up to temp. Her eyes were still blank. He slid off her slippers, and he kicked off his boots and socks, then shrugged off his jacket and tossed it in the corner chair.

His fingers tested the water one more time. He made a minor adjustment, then returned to Natasha. “OK, kiddo. He we go.”

He carried her into the shower. Then, pinning her upright against the tile with his weight, he directed the showerhead to the back of her neck.

The water began to saturate their clothing, and with his free hand, Clint sluiced the water down her arms, and over her shoulders. “Come back, Natasha,” he called calmly, again and again.

Clint took a deep, stoic breath. He wasn’t a saint, at least not in his own eyes. But she needed someone who saw past her masks, someone that didn’t take advantage of the times when she allowed herself her own humanity, someone who didn’t fit into her expectations --no, her _conditioning_ \-- of what she was to a man, or what she was to her handler. Someone to trust completely.

Clint recalled a snippet of intel in Natalia Romanova’s S.H.I.E.L.D. file, when he initially profiled her for his hit.

_...Twelve-year-old subject of interest was found sitting on the floor of Apt. 2-56 in a catatonic state. She held the body of a fifteen-year-old boy, ID'd as Dmitri Romanov, dead from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Subject was present at the time of death and likely witness to the suicide, estimated to be approximately 18 hours before. Subject was extracted without detection or suspicion of the local authorities…_

When Clint brought a breathing woman back to headquarters instead of an enemy agent in a body-bag, he thought Director Fury would blow a gasket for the blatant defiance of orders. Yet he convinced Fury to forgo S.H.I.E.L.D.’s usual assessment protocols to bring her into the fold, skipping weeks of psychiatric evaluation, the results of which he knew would have dismissed her genius in the name of risk-management.

“If she’s playing us, Agent Barton; if she turns out a double-agent, an infiltrator, or a loose-cannon -- _if she’s seduced you_ \-- it’s on your head. Yours alone,” Fury had warned him during that fateful debrief. “ And we’re not talking just a few months furlough, Barton. You got that?”

“I understand, sir. She’s my responsibility,” he had said with conviction. In the end, Natasha was one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s greatest assets. Fury never apologized, but that wasn’t his way.

Within a matter of months, rumor circulated that Clint and Natasha were romantically involved. They often slept in the same quarters together, and they interacted with intimate knowledge of each other's thoughts and habits. The truth was something they kept to themselves, and the gossip they used as a smoke-screen. Even Loki had assumed, leaving that exact corner of Clint’s memories untouched during his possession. Anyone else not in their line of work would have named their bond for what it was: love. But words were the primary medium of lies, so she and he contented themselves with the devotion of actions.

As the water began to cool, Natasha’s confused voice asked in Russian, “Where am I?”

Clint answered in English. “Czech Republic. Prague. 2014.”

She blinked and he leaned away, easing her down to stand on her own two feet.

“Clint?”

“Yeah,” he said, steadily.

“Why are we in a shower with our clothes on?” As she looked up to him, her face seemed fifteen years younger.

He smiled gently, and shrugged almost imperceptively. “I ran out of quarters for the laundry?”


End file.
